Roses And Rue

Bring me the roses white and red,

And take the laurel leaves away;

Yea, wreathe the roses round my head

That wearies 'neath the crown of bay.

"We searched the wintry forests thro'

And found no roses anywhere—

But we have brought a little rue

To twine a circlet for your hair."

I would not pluck the rose in May,

I wove a laurel crown instead;

And when the crown is cast away,

They bring me rue — the rose is dead.